


Post-Case High

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Domestic Angsty Fluffy One-Shots [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:20:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hi Friends. Warning for drug use. If you find this triggering, please leave now and read the other happier wonderful fics written by incredibly talented writers on this site. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post-Case High

Sherlock’s heart is racing and his blood is pumping. He just spent the last three days solving a simple case that turned into an 8 when the murderer was found murdered. He bounds up the stairs and fits his key into the lock. The door swings open and Sherlock sweeps into 221B. Sherlock’s entrance disturbs the dust that he never lets Mrs. Hudson clean. It dances in the late afternoon light filtering in through the open windows. It’s oddly beautiful.

John is sitting in his chair wearing a familiar jumper and jeans. He has one leg tucked up under him to warm his naked toes while he pecks away at the latest write-up for the blog. He types for several minutes before noticing Sherlock staring. John stops typing and smiles softly at Sherlock while the dust tangles in his short blonde hair. The light and brilliance of this small undemanding man takes Sherlock’s breath away every time. His love is a physical weight that Sherlock carries in him every day, but sometimes it catches him unaware and sends a shooting ache through his chest. An ache that leaves him doubled over and gasping from the sheer force of it.

Sherlock lays down on the sofa and shuts his eyes tight fighting the salty rivulets that threaten to fall. He can picture it perfectly. Him and John, post-case. The thrill of the chase and their love filling the flat. The clarity of it burns dragging Sherlock back into the present. It’s hateful. Sherlock rips his eyes open and the post-case high immediately drains from his body as he looks around the empty flat. To an untrained eye, it looks precisely the same. Piles of paperwork, abandoned experiments, and neglected cups of tea fill the sitting room. To Sherlock, John’s absence is written everywhere. The dormant kitchen protest Sherlock’s indifference. The desk groans under the weight of Sherlock’s furious determination to keep busy with countless experiments. And that chair. The sight of it sitting there patiently and unassuming (much like its owner himself) brings Sherlock to his knees.

This is unacceptable, Sherlock decides. He gets to his feet and stomps to his bedroom. Kicking the edge of a floorboard, he reveals the shallow compartment that holds a small Moroccan case. Sherlock’s blood races as his fingers caress the old familiar box. He takes it back into the living and sets it on the coffee table. Sitting on the sofa, he prepares the syringe and carefully rolls up his sleeve. He knows John wouldn’t approve, but John doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care about the cases, or the flat, or Sherlock. He hasn’t heard from John in weeks and the silence is unbearable. He can barely keep John in his mind palace anymore. He has to do this…the cocaine will help. It will make his brain crisp and clear without ruining everything with reality. Sherlock depresses the plunger and closes his eyes. A single tear falls down his pale cheek as John rises from his chair and walks over to draw Sherlock into his lap on the sofa. Sherlock loses himself to the soothing feel of John stroking his curls and the cocaine singing in his veins.


End file.
